


Another Battle in Our Dirty Little War

by dreamlittleyo



Series: One Step Up 'Verse [1]
Category: Tron (Movies), Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Double Penetration, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Non Consensual, Rape, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:32:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clu has wanted to get his hands on a User for a long time. Sam Flynn is more than he ever hoped for.<br/></p><div class="center">
<br/><img/></div>Art by <a href="http://dauntdraws.livejournal.com">dauntdraws</a>, <a href="http://dauntdraws.livejournal.com/44975.html">here</a>.
            </blockquote>





	Another Battle in Our Dirty Little War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daunt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daunt/gifts).



Sam Flynn's identity disc is light in Clu's hands. Smooth and insubstantial. On the surface it's no different from any other disc belonging to any other program on the Grid. In the layers of code beneath, there's more, but Clu has already discarded that information. He has everything he was after.

He honestly expected more.

He hands the disc off to Jarvis, who takes it to the far corner of the room and sets it aside. Out of reach.

"That's a hell of a way to treat your son," Sam is saying now, drawing Clu's attention sharply back to their conversation.

Clu feels a small smile distorting his own features. He knows a tiny gleam of intent must be lighting his eyes as he says, "I'm not your father, Sam. But I'm very, very happy to see you."

He sees the unmistakable moment when understanding crosses Sam's face, the glint of betrayal setting in.

"Clu," Sam breathes, and Clu smiles wider.

There's something intoxicating about the power Clu feels in this moment—the potential and possibilities he senses rippling out around him. He sent out that page hoping to snare a User in his trap. But this—Kevin Flynn's own son—standing angry and solid before him, is more of a success than he ever could have dreamed.

He already planned on enjoying this, but now. Now he'll be able to relish every moment.

His circuitry pulses momentarily brighter at the thought of the things he's about to do to Sam Flynn.

Rinzler stands just behind the boy like some kind of subservient bodyguard, and inclines his masked face towards Clu. For an instant, his red circuits flash brighter, too.

Clu hasn't told anyone his plans. Not even Rinzler. But Rinzler is smart. Rinzler knows Users, and he knows his master's wants, needs, desires. He must know what Clu is thinking now, and the idea only sharpens the anticipation tightening Clu's chest.

Sam is still staring at him, accusation stark on his face, and Clu takes a step closer. Sam doesn't flinch, but confusion spreads across his face at Clu's sudden proximity.

"What did you do to him?" Sam asks, and the words are so close Clu feels their warmth on his face. He remembers this—remembers the inexplicable warmth Kevin Flynn always emitted so unthinkingly—and a pulse of genuine desire snakes through him.

He realizes with surprise that he genuinely _wants_ this boy. Wants to claim that warmth for himself, wants to know what it feels like when this User comes apart beneath his hands. He wants to hurt Sam, too—there's no question there—but he'll have plenty time for that later. It's his move now.

He reaches up into the slim space between them, gets a grip on Sam's chin and forces his head back just far enough to remind him who's in charge.

"I wouldn't worry about him right now, Sam," says Clu.

There's no fear in Sam's eyes. Only defiance and anger and stubborn resolve. Clu is already imagining what it will be like to take that resolve apart piece by piece.

"Jarvis," he says without letting go. "Get out there and keep the stadium occupied. Find something to distract them until I'm ready to put our guest back on the Gaming Grid." Jarvis immediately complies, vanishing out the door.

"Everyone out," Clu says to the rest of the room. He spares a look for Rinzler, who still stands close behind the User, ready and obedient and watchful. "Except you," Clu says softly, though the command is unnecessary. Rinzler wasn't moving to leave. He knows better.

Clu waits until the three of them are alone, until the doors are closed and the window behind him has shifted impenetrable and opaque. He can feel a minute trembling from Sam where Clu still holds his chin in an unyielding grip, and he doesn't miss the way Sam's eyes dart around the room in search of weaknesses, weapons, avenues of escape. He must know how easily he would be overpowered, because he doesn't move, but Clu can tell how difficult this prolonged stillness is becoming for him.

"Now," Clu says, loosening his grip fractionally but not letting go. "What are we going to do with you?"

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam doesn't flinch at Clu's question, but something in the tone of the words doesn't sit right. It sounds rhetorical—like Clu's already got something in mind. Sam doesn't need to be a computer genius to guess that whatever it is, he's probably not going to like it.

"Where's my dad?" he asks again, already certain he won't be getting a straight answer, or hell, any answer at all.

"Well," Clu says, a glint of malice flashing behind his eyes even as his lip curls into a threatening smile. "That _is_ the question. But we'll have time enough for that later."

Something in his voice—or maybe it's that look in his eyes, malice mixing with an eager curiosity that Sam is at a loss to explain—slithers uncomfortably beneath Sam's skin and he takes a jerking step back.

He tries to, anyway. But he can't complete the motion because there's suddenly a solid presence at his back, and it's only belatedly that he realizes the sound running like an undercurrent in the room is the same rough, mechanical rumbling he heard when there was a disc at his throat in the arena.

The masked program standing behind him might as well be faceless for all Sam knows. He couldn't see beneath the smooth, reflective black of his helmet in the heat of battle, and he doesn't plan on turning to try for a closer look now. ' _Rinzler_ ,' his brain supplies, for all the good the information does him. He's got more immediate problems at the moment.

Clu's hand is still an unwelcome point of contact where he holds Sam's chin, and with every second that passes Sam starts to feel more wrong about whatever the hell is going on here.

"User," Clu murmurs almost thoughtfully. "You're a walking conundrum, you know. A mess of imperfection and chaos. It's a wonder we ever believed in you." Sam holds his breath, holds his tongue as Clu continues, "But you're also a powerhouse of potential."

"Potential for what?" Sam asks as anxiety twists in his stomach.

But Clu doesn't answer. Clu's smile slides deeper, darker, and his hold shifts. His thumb drifts higher, brushing upwards in a mocking touch, until the pad is an uninvited pressure on Sam's lower lip. Sam clenches his jaw tightly, but Clu only presses harder, forces the issue, and Sam feels the surreal slip of Clu's smooth, black glove over his teeth.

  


  


Something embarrassed and disgusted twists through him at the touch, and he jerks his head back with a growl, jostling against the program behind him in the process.

"What the _fuck_?" he snarls, and he's got plenty of other things to say—not to mention a fist that will feel just right connecting with that smirking face—

But he doesn't get the chance. He's too busy gasping as Clu's fingers close suddenly, casually around his throat, gripping tightly enough to cut into Sam's airflow. Sam's face draws into a tight grimace, and he tries to twist free. But Clu's hold is strong and unrelenting, and it's not until Sam goes still—eyes closed, teeth gritting tightly, chest burning with the need for air—that Clu's grip relents enough to let Sam breathe.

  


  


"Oh, Sam," says Clu. Smug and cold. "The things I'm going to do to you."

His fingers dig into the sensitive flesh beneath Sam's jaw, forcing Sam's head back as Clu draws in close.

"Do you know what will happen?" Clu asks. "When I take you apart just right?" His fingers dig in harder, and there's muted laughter in Clu's voice when he says, "I do. I'll show you, if you like."

Sam tries to shake his head. It doesn't work, but his message must get across just the same, because Clu meets the narrow fury of Sam's glare and only smiles wider.

"Oh, trust me. This is something you won't want to miss."

Sam gasps a startled gulp of air when Clu abruptly releases him, and the sudden rush of ample oxygen makes his head spin.

"Don't worry," Clu says, still speaking even though Sam is having trouble focusing through the noisy rush of blood in his ears. His hand falls to Sam's chest, palm flat, fingers drifting purposefully, and he says, "We'll make sure you enjoy yourself. There's really no point if you don't."

Sam is already recoiling, instinctive and repulsed, even before Clu's touch falls to trace the white-blue line of circuiting that angles down Sam's chest—even before that contact sends a sharp jolt of intense, uninvited sensation through him. It's pleasure, much as the realization tightens Sam's throat all over again, and _now_ he's moving—trying to, at least—but he can't get away with Rinzler standing like an immovable wall at his back.

  


Curses echo in his head, and he tries to maneuver to the side instead, out from between the malevolent threat at his front and the silent figure behind him.

No, he remembers. Not silent. _Purring_ , that damn sound, like something broken and grinding in on itself.

He doesn't get away.

It's Clu he expects the attack from, but it's Rinzler that moves, sudden and sharp. He twists Sam's arms up behind him, making Sam grunt in surprise and pain, and Sam's balance is already shot when a black-booted foot casually kicks his knee out from under him and sends him to the floor.

  


  


His knees ache from the impact, and Sam struggles uselessly, trying to rise, impeded by the impossibly strong hands still twisting his arms behind him. Rinzler has dropped with him, in a silent motion, and too easily—as though Sam _weren't_ trying desperately to twist free—he transfers both of Sam's wrists into one steady hand. Sam tugs and twists and knows with a sinking certainty that he won't be able to get away.

He can feel Rinzler pressed close along his back, restraining him, and now he doesn't just _hear_ the fractured, rumbling purr. He can _feel_ it, as though it's somehow originating beneath his own skin.

He tries to draw himself upright—wants to look the smug bastard in the eye—and only manages to wedge himself back even more tightly against Rinzler's firm, unyielding front.

Fuck, this isn't happening.

Rinzler shifts then, drags him upright so sharply Sam's back arches with the unexpected pressure, and now he can't look anywhere _but_ at Clu as the program sneers down at him. Then Clu nods, eyes cryptic, and Sam has a fraction of a second to wonder what the gesture means before Rinzler's fingers are siding into his hair, tightening and making his scalp sting. Sam feels it like an impact when his head is yanked back against Rinzler's shoulder, pulling his whole body taut and baring his throat. Sam blinks stinging eyes, sees Clu taking a step forward, and the words slip out—breathy and fearful—despite his best efforts to choke them back down.

"What are you going to do to me?"

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Clu feels a pleasant surge of something sharp and vicious at the unmistakable fear in Sam's voice. Another bright pulse of his yellow circuits, another moment of not quite believing what his eyes and other senses are telling him.

This system belongs to him—this _world_ belongs to him—and yet now, standing here, staring down his nose at the sight of Rinzler forcing Sam Flynn to his knees…

Clu doesn't think he's ever felt so powerful.

"I told you," Clu says. "I'm going to take you apart." He drops into a fluid crouch in front of Sam, knees bent carelessly, eyes drilling down into Sam's questioning gaze. "Users and programs are more similar than you realize, Kiddo." Interesting, the way Sam flinches when Clu calls him that. He files the observation away for later. "Sure, the mechanics are different. The basic building blocks of life, the worlds we live in… but when it comes right down to it, Users have the very same weaknesses that programs do."

Sam stays quiet when Clu pauses, and for a moment the only sound in the room is Rinzler's low, ragged rumble.

Then Clu reaches forward and sets his hand on Sam's chest in the exact same position as before. He feels a tremble course through Sam's body, the boy obviously trying unsuccessfully to move away, and Clu presses harder, shifting his touch, deliberately exciting the broad, bright circuitry beneath his fingers. He watches as every sharp blue line on Sam's body instantly pulses brighter, and Sam chokes on an audible gasp.

"They're both so easy to manipulate," Clu murmurs, stroking lower along the pulsing trail of blue and cocking his head curiously at the way the touch makes Sam's breath come heavier and faster. "Physically. Emotionally. Set reactions to certain stimuli. Do you know what the only difference is?"

The question is rhetorical of course. He'll answer it himself momentarily. Just as soon as he's done being distracted by the sight of Sam's chest rising and falling in hard, sharp gasps. The sensations have clearly caught him off guard. He's coming undone already, and they've barely even started.

Clu doesn't want to find the sight quite this enticing—quite this intoxicating—but his own excitement is a mounting hum beneath his code, and his hand trails lower still, over the curve of Sam's all too human ribs.

"The difference," says Clu, "is that programs, beneath all those predictable responses, have their coding to guide them. They _want_ to do exactly what they're programmed to do. But you? You've got no control at all. You're completely helpless against your bodies' whims."

"That's not true," Sam retorts darkly. Clu just smirks in response, then drags his fingers sharply back up Sam's torso, sets his palm to the circular circuit high on Sam's chest and presses down hard. He attacks simultaneously with physical strength and a subtle manipulation of code beneath his touch.

Physically there's no give beneath his hand, not with Rinzler there, curled along Sam's back and restraining his every movement. But pressed between them, head forced back by Rinzler's fingers fisted in his hair, helpless to escape the sensations Clu is forcing into his body, Sam's jaw drops and he gasps a stark, startled, " _Ah_!" as his eyes clench shut. His circuiting flashes blindingly bright for an instant, then calms as Clu removes his hand.

Sam blinks, momentarily disoriented.

Shifting his weight back, rising smoothly to his feet, Clu smirks down at Sam and murmurs, "You were saying?"

But instead of looking cowed, Sam's face is darkening into an expression of fresh defiance. There's anger and steel in his eyes, a determined set to his mouth, and suddenly he looks so much like Kevin Flynn that Clu feels fury clench keenly in his chest.

Clu wouldn't even need Sam now if Flynn had kept his promise.

Sam either doesn't sense the sudden shift in the atmosphere of the room, or—more likely perhaps—he sees it and thinks victory is in sight, because instead of subsiding, he opens his mouth to speak.

"You know none of this is real," Sam says. "Not to me. It doesn't matter what you do. When I get out of here, you'll still be nothing but a blip on a computer screen." Despite the bared throat—the submissive posture he's being held in, the obvious discomfort of being restrained in this position—Sam's expression is a deliberate challenge. ' _You can't really hurt me_ ,' that expression says.

It makes Clu want to prove him wrong.

"Rinzler," he says, driven more by angry instinct than conscious thought. "Helmet."

He watches the reflective planes of Rinzler's mask fold back, pixels cascading away to reveal the smooth-featured face beneath. For all the modifications Clu made when he crafted Rinzler from the damaged pieces of code he had to work with, he didn't touch that face.

There's a moment before Sam puts it together—a moment where he's still looking at Clu—but then his attention shifts, his gaze cutting to the side, and when he catches sight of Rinzler's profile, Sam's eyes go impossibly wide.

"What—?" Sam gasps. "What the _fuck_?"

 

\- — - — - — - — -

That's Alan.

That's Alan fucking _Bradley_ beneath that helmet, and suddenly Sam can't breathe. His brain scrambles furiously, trying to understand, but there's no solid ground for him to stand on and all he can do is stare.

Alan's face is younger than Sam has ever seen it, and the expression is terrifying and foreign. Sam's never seen Alan look so grim and blank and dangerous, and his pulse starts racing even faster than it did in that overwhelming moment when Clu's hand was all over him. This isn't possible. Alan can't _be_ here. He doesn't know this place exists or he never would've shown up on Sam's doorstep tonight, armed with nothing but a pager and a cryptic message.

This isn't Alan. Sam finally manages to get his head around that fact, at least, and he reminds himself he knows this program's name. Rinzler. But that still leaves one gaping, enormous hole in the train of logic he's clinging to.

Against his better judgment, Sam says, "I don't understand. Why does he look like Alan?"

He can't tear his eyes away from Rinzler, but even from just his peripheral vision Sam can tell Clu is pleased.

"So you _do_ know Alan-One," Clu says cheerfully. "I suspected as much. Why else would the son of Flynn respond to a message intended for someone else? Not that we aren't thrilled to have you here, of course."

" _Why_?" Sam demands again, straining against the hands holding him immobile.

"Oh. That's right," Clu says, mockery thick in his voice. "This is your first visit to the Grid." He steps closer, an ominous, looming presence above Sam, and says, "Funny story. _True_ story. Did you know that, once upon a time, _every_ program wore the face of the User that created him?" He pauses, maybe for dramatic effect or maybe just to irritate Sam, then continues, "That was a long time ago, though. That was the old system. It doesn't work that way anymore."

Confusion draws Sam's brows down, makes his eyes narrow as he tries to follow the path Clu is laying down for him. If programs _don't_ bear the faces of their creators any longer, then why does Clu look exactly like every memory Sam has of his father? Why is Rinzler watching him from intense, impenetrable eyes that look so familiar the sight makes Sam's skin flush?

Sam averts his gaze, finally. Focuses on Clu and hates the way Clu's eyes laugh down at him, amused at watching Sam fumble.

"Oh, I'm more of a digital copy than a true program. And Rinzler here… he's been around longer than most. He's from the old system. He used to go by a different name entirely."

And then Clu simply stands there. Silent and waiting. Sam shifts in Rinzler's hold and swallows nervously. Rinzler's whining, rumbling purr vibrates along Sam's spine. The sound echoes in his ears and makes it hard to think, but Sam gathers the pieces around him and tries to put them together.

When the puzzle clicks into place, the first thing Sam feels is horror. The second is nausea as a hundred favorite childhood stories rattle through his mind, his father's warm voice describing the hero of his magical Grid.

"Tron," Sam whispers. He can't bring himself to look again. He'd rather stare at Clu's familiar visage than turn to face the program behind him. "What—… What have you done to him?" His voice shakes. He's suddenly, genuinely _scared_ in a way that startles him—makes this moment, this surreal room and it's impossible occupants real in a way that leaves his insides cold—and it's all he can do to tamp the reaction down and keep levelly meeting Clu's gaze.

"Just some minor modifications to his programming," Clu says. "He's more useful to me this way. Much more… _obliging_." His tone makes Sam's stomach twist unpleasantly, implies and calls to mind a flood of fragmented images Sam would rather not be imagining.

"No," he says, but the word feels feeble on his lips.

"Yes," says Clu. And then he's dropping to one knee in a single, graceful movement, the yellow-lit contours of his cape settling behind him, and Sam struggles anew against Rinzler's hold. He has to get away, he can't let Clu touch him again, _fuck_ —

"Rinzler, hold him still," says Clu, corner of his mouth twisting upwards. As if Sam were going anywhere. As if his struggles are accomplishing anything at all.

But Rinzler's hand tightens bruisingly on Sam's wrist, his grip in Sam's hair sharpens painfully, and Sam wants to shut his eyes when Clu reaches for him again. He wants to, but he forces himself to maintain eye contact as Clu trails his index finger down the bright, narrow circuit centered high on Sam's chest.

He _tries_ to maintain eye contact, at least. He fails as even that small, single touch sends a rippling wave of pure sensation through him. He hears his gasp shiver through the air, hears his breath stutter in his chest as Clu joins that touch with a second, a purposeful stroke of his thumb over a broader circuit immediately beside the first. Sam's eyes are closed now, and he's not sure when it happened, but when he tries to open them and focus all he sees is the ceiling going blurry above him.

Rinzler is sturdy and cool behind him, but all Sam can feel are the paths Clu is stroking down the smooth circuits of his armor. All he knows is the sharp, ragged pulse of power as it reverberates in his chest, floods his body, makes his breath come in desperate gasps that leave him feeling oxygen-starved and empty.

He doesn't mean to speak. He means to grit his teeth and keep quiet—as quiet as he can with his breath shaking in and out in harsh, uneven pants—because fuck if he plans on giving Clu the satisfaction.

But then Clu reaches forward with his other hand—traces one of the blue lines running the length of Sam's bicep—and it's too much.

" _Please_ ," Sam hisses through tightly clenched teeth. "Please stop."

He's got no delusions that Clu will actually listen.

Then Clu's hand on his chest drifts away from the lines of blue, lower, into the unlit space between them—just below Sam's sternum—and there's a new sensation. Something shivery and soft that feels completely different from the overwhelming flood where Clu is still tracing a pattern along his arm. Sam can't identify it—opens his eyes against his better judgment, but even then it's not like he can _see_ , not with his head yanked back and no room to maneuver.

The touch trails lower—trails to the right, towards his hip—and Sam gasps aloud, startled at the way it feels like something melting and rippling across his skin.

Then Clu reverses directions, traces the same path back up Sam's body, and Sam swears out loud.

Fuck, that _is_ his skin. Clu's gloved hand is teasing, trailing over his ribs, his stomach, and Sam feels every inch of the caress.

Sam's head is spinning, his chest gone tight and hot and panicked as he twists ineffectually in Rinzler's hands.

Just when he thinks he's going to implode from too much sensation—just as the world has begun to blur and shimmer around the edges, as his face starts tingling with heat—Rinzler's hand unfists from his hair. The other hand still maintains its unbreakable hold on Sam's wrists, but the fingers in his hair are suddenly a softer touch. Smooth guidance instead of forceful command, as Rinzler cups the back of Sam's head—as he angles Sam's face towards him, to meet eyes that flash with dark, indecipherable intensity, and then—

Then Rinzler kisses him, and Sam's world spins out.

He doesn't jerk away. He's too stunned. And then he realizes that Clu's hands on his body aren't moving. Clu hasn't stopped touching him entirely, but the caresses have stilled and the shattering overload of sensation quiets to something more manageable.

Sam's got zero fucking idea where this is coming from, where it's going, but it seems a preferable alternative to Clu's carefully calculated assault. Even if this is just some kind of mindfuck—even if it's just a brief, fragmented respite from whatever comes next—Sam finds that, all things considered, he doesn't mind the feel of Rinzler's mouth. Even when Rinzler turns Sam's head further and prods at Sam's barely parted lips with his tongue. Even when that tongue slips past before Sam can think to close his mouth.

Even when it hits him that he's essentially making out with Alan, though that thought is surreal as hell and leaves his chest tight in a sharp, unpleasant way.

Clu's hands still don't move, and Sam cracks his eyes open, searching for Clu without trying to escape the kiss. He's not sure what he expects to find on the program's face. Malicious glee, maybe. Heated fascination. Wicked, merciless amusement.

What he finds instead is cold, venomous fury.

He does try to break away from the kiss now. Tries to turn his head because now he _knows_ this can't go anywhere good. Not if it puts that look on Clu's face—the program is vicious enough when he's smiling.

But Rinzler's fingers tighten, bracketing the nape of his neck in a suddenly vice-like hold, and Sam can't get away. Sam gasps around Rinzler's tongue, eyes squeezing shut, as Rinzler presses rough bruises into the back of his neck and takes the kiss deeper.

"Rinzler," Clu says calmly. He only needs to say it once. Just like that, Rinzler is drawing back, leaving Sam to gasp and tremble and drag air into his protesting lungs.

He can't stop staring at Rinzler's face. _Alan's_ face. Fuck, if he gets out of this, he'll never be able to look the man in the eyes again.

Then one of Clu's hands is jerking away from Sam's body, fingers wrapping roughly around Sam's throat and dragging his attention away from Rinzler. Sam blinks at Clu, struggles to swallow past the sharp press of Clu's hand just below his jaw. He stares, fear a steady swirl of warning in his gut, and wonders how so much violence can reflect in so still a posture.

Clu's other hand drifts low on Sam's chest. His fingers trace briefly over the bared skin and then brush lower, deliberate and slow, trailing unpredictable patterns over the intersecting lines of light at his hip. Sam gasps. Shudders. Can't get enough air with Clu's fingers tightening on his throat.

"Is it strange for you?" Clu says, words coming to Sam from some disjointed place beyond the fresh flood of sensation. "All these things you're feeling, the things you're _going_ to feel—oh yes, don't worry, we're just getting started—and yet, when you look at us… how can you not see them?"

"Fuck you," Sam manages to snarl past the pressure of Clu's fingers. It still comes out breathy and ragged.

"Is that any way to talk to your father, Sam?"

"You're not my father."

"I was created in his image."

"You're full of shit. And you're nothing like him." Sam hasn't seen his father in twenty years, but this much at least he knows with unmitigated certainty. There's a deep, calculated malice at the core of Clu's being. Something raw and damaged and built around the anger Sam can see shimmering beneath everything the program says or does.

He may wonder if his father had any idea what he had created—what kind of monster he was setting loose—but he knows there's _nothing_ of his father in the contempt shining out at him from behind Clu's eyes.

Clu's face tightens into a small, vicious smile and his fingers dance over Sam's hip and then lower along his thigh, following the line of blue, and Sam's whole body rocks against Rinzler's hold as the touch rockets through him.

Then—sharply, suddenly, harshly—Clu's mouth is on him, bruising Sam's lips as Clu's tongue snakes past, vicious and deep.

Sam growls unintelligible curses. He tries to turn his head away, but Clu is clutching his throat too tightly. He tries to buck forward hard enough to knock Clu over, but he barely moves an inch. All his efforts earn him are a chuckle he can feel far too intimately, and a sick curl of nausea in his gut as Clu slots his mouth more roughly against Sam's and takes the kiss even deeper.

Clu's tongue feels invasive and wrong. An attack or, fuck, a violation is what it is, deliberate and remorseless. Clu's free hand is still playing wandering patterns over Sam's circuits, then higher across the bared skin of his stomach, and Sam's head is spinning, Sam's body feels detached and overwhelmed, and disbelief wars with terror in the corner of his mind that can focus beyond everything Clu is doing.

When Clu's tongue disappears from his mouth, Sam knows this is only a temporary reprieve. He can still feel Clu's smile against his abused lips, and he knows that any second that tongue will return—will be staking claim and conquering him so far down there'll be no coming back from this. The anticipation feels like panic in his chest, and without a conscious plan of attack, Sam reacts.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

When Sam bites him, Clu is startled but not surprised.

He feels teeth close on his lower lip, and he jerks back instinctively as pain laces the brand new wound.

He knows what it must look like when he pulls away. Pixeled edges, visible damage to his physical code. Rough, glinting fragments where his lip is split.

Clu immediately releases Sam's throat and backhands him across the face—Rinzler sees his response coming quickly enough to release his hold on the User's neck, and the impact lands hard and jerks Sam's head roughly to the side.

Sam is slow to raise his face and meet Clu's gaze. When he does, Clu sees a trickle of blood escaping from the corner of Sam's mouth. The sight calms him almost instantly. It sets off a low, shivering want beneath his circuits.

It's been a long time since he saw blood.

  


  


"That wasn't very clever, Sam," Clu says in a measured tone. He watches Sam carefully—sees the boy's eyes drop to Clu's damaged lip and stay there, expression suddenly bright with fierce, rebellious hope.

Clu can trace the thoughts behind that look easily enough. Sam is realizing he has the capacity to cause Clu physical harm. He's getting ideas— _wrong_ ideas—about exactly who's in charge here. Clu can't help but smile at the display of naïve foolishness.

Without saying a word, Clu reaches to touch the damage. The pixels feel rough beneath his thumb, until he presses and smoothes—undoing the injury as easily as modifying a faulty panel on the wall of his vessel. When he draws his hand away, he knows his mouth is as smooth and unmarred as before Sam's rebellion, and he sees the misplaced hope in Sam's eyes shutter and close off.

"Tell me," Clu murmurs idly, already stroking higher with the hand he never quite took off of Sam's body. "Do you dislike the things I'm doing to you? Are you disgusted? Horrified? Indifferent?" Sam whimpers when Clu traces the circle of circuitry on his hip, and Clu smiles and says, "Do you really want me to stop touching you, Sam?"

He's touching with both hands now—deliberate paths of contact that ghost across nearly every inch of Sam's body—arms, thighs, shoulders. He disrupts the code in some of those places as he goes, carelessly derezzing patches of the tight black material encasing Sam's body. He doesn't know if the boy even notices yet, but he will soon enough.

It takes Sam an extra moment to get himself together, but finally he answers, "I want you to go to Hell."

"I find that hard to believe," Clu says. Brightly. Intently.

"Why?"

Clu smiles wider, and drops a hand to the one spot he hasn't touched yet. His palm settles between Sam's legs—at the heated junction between his straining thighs—and through the intact material still covering this vital, intimate spot, Clu cups the unmistakable evidence of human arousal.

Sam's eyes go wide, instant and panicked, and Clu realizes the boy is only now figuring out that he's hard.

Clu raises his other hand to wipe away the blood from the corner of Sam's mouth. His own systems give an eager thrill at the way the touch makes Sam flinch.

"Don't," Sam whispers. "Please don't."

But Clu has no intention of stopping now.

He touches Sam everywhere: erratically pulsing circuitry where Sam's suit and armor are still intact; flushed skin where the material is gone or gradually pixelating to pieces and dissolving away. He draws breathless sounds from Sam's throat as he maps and learns the contours of the User's body, and watches in fascination as Sam's chest rises and falls, as his responses grow more violently frantic and his eyes clench shut as though he's in pain.

Rinzler moves without instruction, covering Sam's mouth with a heavy palm, muffling his cries and using the leverage to yank Sam's head tightly back. Sam's body shakes even harder at the extra restraint. His legs shift beneath him, straining as though he's trying to rise even though he's got nowhere to go. His throat is bared again like this, vulnerable and inviting and gloriously submissive, and Clu presses a mocking trail of kisses from Sam's jaw to the top of the still intact collar of his patchy, dissolving suit.

He marvels at the instantaneous effect every caress seems to have on the User. He can't stop staring at the desperate way Sam's chest is heaving—struggling for air with Rinzler crushing his mouth closed, struggling for the control Clu is stripping away touch by calculated touch.

Clu knew this would be satisfying. He had no idea it would feel like this.

Every touch is an experiment, in a way. Clu knows how to manipulate programs. And he knows a thing or two about Users. He's seen what pushes a User's buttons—long buried fragments of memory that stir up desire and jealous resentment in equal parts and turn Clu's touches now harder, bruising and cruel.

But he's never had his _own_ hands on a User, and watching Sam come undone beneath his attentions is a power trip like Clu has never imagined.

He manipulates Sam's body confidently—easily—and though the muffled fragments of Sam's moans and gasps are doing warm, pleasant things to him, eventually Clu wants more.

"Rinzler, let go," he orders. "I want to hear him."

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Rinzler's hand disappears, and Sam should be able to get enough air now, except it's as though he doesn't remember how to breathe. His chest heaves sharply, lungs burning as though he's been running for hours without respite, and his eyes sting with tears born not of fear or discomfort—he hasn't cried tears like that in years—but from the sharp desperation threatening to tear him apart.

Clu's touch is relentless. Purposeful and intent, finding all the spots that drag Sam unwillingly along, pulling him to the perimeter of some impossible cliff but not quite pouring him over the edge.

Sam knows if he went over that edge, he'd shatter.

When Clu sets his hand palm-flat over Sam's heart and spreads his fingers wide, Sam expects some new, violent surge of sensation. Something apocalyptic and overwhelming.

Instead the sensation that follows is subtle and so imperceptible that at first Sam doesn't notice what's happening. When his body finally adjusts to the relative stillness, he realizes his chest is tingling, shivering beneath a soft sensation that spreads from beneath Clu's hand.

It _tickles_ , Sam realizes with a start, and he looks down at his chest. Blinks to clear his vision as he tries to make out what's happening.

Tendrils of string are slithering out from beneath Clu's palm—at least, they _look_ like string. They also look like orange light, or like a jolt of static electricity given physical form. They vibrate slightly, and where they touch what's left of his suit and armor—and Christ, Sam didn't realize just _how_ little was left after all Clu's explorations—the dark material flickers and fades, leaving nothing but unguarded skin behind.

The tendrils of string are few, only two or three—hard to tell precisely with the way they keep flickering bright to dark to bright again—but they slither along Sam's body, across his chest, over his shoulders. They extend in smooth lines around Sam's arms, his wrists, gliding across the shivering planes of his stomach and the tightly arched small of his back, and then they slip lower. His thighs, his legs. The tendrils slip into place, dissolving black material as they go, and then they begin to tighten.

Sam swears as he feels the lines of light constrict. They don't tickle anymore. They bear down on him, tight and suddenly restraining, and Sam can't help struggling against them. It's instinct. The lines of orange light look so thin and breakable, but they don't give way. All Sam's struggling accomplishes is a quicker dissolving of the edges of material closest to the narrow strings.

It doesn't seem to be damaging his skin, at least. Small miracles.

Sam manages to keep his questions to himself this time. He stares at Clu, trying to keep his face defiant as Clu draws his hand away, tugging idly at one of the strings before dragging his knuckles down the wide stretch of bare skin at Sam's stomach.

"Now _that_ is a pretty sight," Clu murmurs.

Then he stands, smooth reversal of the same fluid motion that brought him down to Sam's level in the first place, and he's still so close Sam wants to flinch away. He can't, of course. But wants to—especially when he catches sight of the undeniable bulge Clu is now sporting beneath the tight black material of his own yellow-circuited suit.

'What the _fuck_ ,' Sam thinks but doesn't say, and for a painful stretch of seconds he can't stop staring.

He's not sure why it surprises him. With everything Clu has done to him, everything he's said—this encounter has been sexual from minute one, even if Sam himself was reluctant to catch on. Sam can still remember the invasive pressure of Clu's hand cupping his own unrealized erection—and for a moment Sam's face flushes hotter with remembered shame than with the revelation that Clu apparently comes equipped to fuck Sam up in more ways than one.

Sam's hard-on is _still_ uncomfortable between his legs, a revelation that can't be forgotten once discovered, and he feels the uneven racket of his own pulse in his ears, feels it where his cock strains against too-tight armor.

But he can't waste time worrying about his own body's betrayal right now. He's a little more concerned with _Clu's_ body, and the fact that—against what little logic Sam is able to scrape together about programs and reproduction and what he's seen of the Grid so far—the program before him is anatomically correct.

"You look surprised, Sam," Clu murmurs, voice a malicious tease. "See something you weren't expecting?"

Sam presses his lips into a tight, unhappy line and doesn't respond.

Clu is a digital copy, he reminds himself. He's not a true program. But those thoughts lead to even less pleasant territory—terrain surrounding the mess of just whom Clu is a digital copy _of_ —and Sam brutally cuts off that train before it can carry him too far.

He forces himself to raise his eyes—to ignore the tight apprehension curling in his gut—and look at Clu's face. He meets the quiet taunt he finds there with a rebellious stare, but of course he's got no idea what to say.

Then Clu takes a backwards step. Then a second. There's movement behind him, something quick and seamless, and Sam realizes a low, square-edged couch has risen from the floor. It reconfigures efficiently, a chaotic jumble of parts, and goes from facing the window behind Clu to offering a front row seat that looks down on Rinzler holding Sam still.

Clu drops onto the piece of furniture with an arrogant sweep, cape flaring behind him, and lounges comfortably back with a look of expectation on his face.

Sam doesn't know what's coming, but at least without Clu touching him Sam can think again. His mind races, testing and rejecting a hundred escape plans. He becomes suddenly, painfully aware of the emptiness of the room, the sprawling space, the distance between him and any of the sealed exits.

Then Clu gives Rinzler another wordless nod, the kind that conveys so much more information than Sam can discern, and in an instant Sam feels the world upend.

His knees protest sharply as he's yanked from the position he's been forced to hold for so long, and then the floor is crashing into him and he's on his stomach, barely turning his face aside in time, cheek squashed against the hard, pristine surface beneath him.

He's not thinking it through as he struggles to get back up—as he gets his knees beneath him and then realizes he can't get any farther with his arms pinned and bound uselessly behind him. He's suddenly painfully aware of how close he is to naked—of the way what's left of his suit is still slowly dissolving away. There are still patches of material along his back, one shoulder, his hips and upper arms and even, as far as he can tell, the line of his collar. But he feels vulnerable as hell, and only now realizes that attempting to rise has only put him in a more compromised position.

He shifts his weight, tries to raise his shoulders from the floor, but he's too late. Rinzler's hand closes on the back of his neck, forces him back down, and Sam grunts as his shoulders hit the floor hard, his chin scraping uncomfortable on the smooth surface before he manages to twist his head to the side. Then Rinzler's body is there, plastered close along his back, his ass—pressure at the backs of Sam's thighs shoving him forward and making his legs spread wider.

And fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , Rinzler is hard, too. Hard and slotted right against him, the material-encased swell of his cock an unmistakable pressure along Sam's ass. Sam's ass, which is already too bare. The last remnants of pixelating material won't last a hell of a lot longer.

Rinzler is still covered neck to toe in his own black bodysuit and armor, as far as Sam knows, but there's no telling how long that will still be true.

He needs to buy time. He needs to redirect and distract—isn't that what he always does when he finds himself penned in without an escape route? Not that he's ever been trapped quite like this. He's never been pinned and tied and completely at someone else's mercy with their hands all fucking over him—not even in his worst moments. Even when the cops managed to catch him, or the time he pissed off an entire barroom full of angry men.

He's never felt vulnerable like this before, and his stomach twists unpleasantly as he forces himself to focus.

He forces himself to look up into Clu's eyes and ask, "Why are you doing this? There's got to be a better way you could get your kicks." His voice sounds mostly steady, if breathier than he'd like, and he makes himself hold still beneath Rinzler's pinning weight.

Clu's face twists into a vicious, considering smile, and he says, "You mean why am I doing it to _you_." Sam closes his mouth, swallows hard, waits as Clu continues, "I told you, Sam. Potential. You're going to give me something extraordinary, and after? I might even let you go." Clu's eyes cut to the side—to Rinzler—and he gives another nod.

Sam feels Rinzler shift against him—feels one of Rinzler's hands brace against his hip as Rinzler leans lower, chest a pressing weight on Sam's arms where they still strain in their tight bonds against his back. Rinzler's other hand, the one bracketing Sam's neck and forcing his shoulders to the ground, eases up now, and suddenly Rinzler's mouth is there, right where his hand used to be.

Sam curses and bucks upwards—tries to, at least, but can't dislodge Rinzler as the program presses bruising kisses and stinging bites down his neck and throat. Then Rinzler reaches the line of Sam's collar, dips lower, and Sam gives a sharp, inarticulate shout as Rinzler's tongue touches a line of circuits high on his shoulder.

Rinzler's tongue quests lower along the circuit, and Sam twists uselessly beneath him, cursing and gasping and overwhelmed, because it's too fucking much. It's fire, it's pleasure, it's like a switch being thrown and setting off fireworks where his insides should be.

Rinzler moves lower, licks past a pixilated patch and finds bare skin jus beneath Sam's shoulder blade, but that's not better. It still leaves Sam's pulse buzzing in his ears, his blood an overwhelmed rush at the cool, slick feel of the program's tongue and lips along his skin. Then Rinzler edges lower still, finds another intact fragment of suit and circuit, and Sam can't remember how to breathe.

He's barely aware of the room around him, but he still notices when Clu stands from his reclined position and circles towards him. He _definitely_ notices when Clu steps close and drops to his knees by Sam's head. Clu's fingers pay through his hair, slip possessively over his face, his lips, and then Clu's hands are holding him down—restraining his body's erratic movements as Rinzler's mouth moves even lower along Sam's body.

"The thing is," Clu says casually. "A User on the Grid is going to break the rules simply by existing." Clu's fingers tighten on Sam's neck, his shoulder, and Sam gasps as Rinzler shifts far enough off of him to trail a string of purposeful kisses down the small of his back. "A User has access to immeasurable power reserves. Not easy to tap into, as you might imagine. But there are… ways." From this close—god, he's a matter of inches away like this, and the thought sends a shrill spike of fear through Sam's chest—Sam can see the way Clu's restrained erection twitches at whatever thoughts accompany the last statement.

"So that's what this is?" Sam asks, breathless and ragged and trying to think past the things Rinzler is doing with his mouth. "I'm— _fuck_ —I'm some kind of goddamn dry cell battery and you're trying to see how I work?"

"Oh, I already know how you 'work', Sam," Clu says, smirk evident in his voice.

"How?" Sam asks, then, "Fuck, _don't_ —!" and then he's shuddering too violently to speak, gasping too hard, as Rinzler's hands part the cheeks of his ass—as Rinzler's tongue finds that secret, sensitive opening and plunges inside.

Sam strains uselessly against his bonds. His breath shudders in and out of him in ragged bursts, and he's making sounds that would horrify him if he had any remaining capacity for embarrassment—rough and low and needy, even as his chest tightens with fear, with sharp rejection of this new trespass.

But he can't get away. He can't do anything but take it—take it, and shake apart at the slick, cool sensation of Rinzler's tongue opening him up.

There's laughter in Clu's voice as he says, "Thought you might like that. Have you ever done this before, Sam? In your own world? Or is this too deviant an activity for a respectable User to participate in."

Sam has done this before. Not many times, but enough to be sure it's not supposed to feel like this. Rinzler's tongue is as forceful and unyielding as the rest of him, and there's a surreal sense of wrongness each time the slick length of it delves deeper. The touch is still loosening him—slicking his passage, sending jolts of pleasure through him—and Sam cries out at one particularly deep thrust.

He's already starting to ache—just enough to drive home the point that this is _real_ —and he's reluctantly coming to realize that if Rinzler's tongue is all he has to deal with, he'll be getting off easy.

"Now, what was your question?" Clu asks, fingers massaging Sam's throat in a mockery of a caress. "Before we were so rudely interrupted?" Sam doesn't remember. And he doesn't particularly care anymore. He's a little too busy trying not to moan like a whore as Rinzler's mouth works him open and takes him apart.

"Oh!" Clu says, as though it's only just come back to him. "That's right. You were asking how I know what I'm doing with all this. You _are_ curious, aren't you? How I can be so sure manipulating you physically will give me what I want?"

Sam doesn't want to know. He just wants the flood of sensory overload to stop. But he can't seem to tune out Clu's voice.

"I saw your father, Sam," Clu says. His tone is bright. Deceptively easy. But there's an undercurrent of quiet rage that Sam can hear even through the pulsing of his blood in his ears and the sound of his own throaty gasps. "I saw him come apart the same way you will when I say the word. Dozens of times. Maybe hundreds. He was insatiable. Sometimes I think he came to the Grid more for the sex than for the games. And the power… You've never seen anything like it, I promise. You will, though. I'm going to show you. Not that you'll be in any condition to notice."

Sam clenches his eyes shut, tries to banish the images Clu's speech has left in his mind, but they're too vivid. Something is missing, though. A vital piece of information that leaves a gaping hole in the tapestry Clu's words have painted.

"Who?" Sam rasps before he can think. He slams his mouth tightly shut, but it's too late. The question is out. And it doesn't matter that he doesn't really want to know. From the sudden, chilly silence and the way Clu's hands hold him down even harder, Sam knows he's about to find out.

"Your father's favorite," Clu murmurs coolly. "His best friend." There's ice in the words. And heat. And an echo of dangerous obsession woven between the two that staggers Sam.

Sam twists beneath Clu's hands, just enough to look up at the program wearing his father's face.

Clu isn't looking at him though. Clu is staring straight ahead, straight down the length of Sam's body, and for a blissful moment Sam is too confused to put it together.

Then the dots connect in his head, and a fresh surge of sick shame snakes into his stomach, and it feels like his heart has stopped cold in his chest. It's not Sam Clu is looking at now. It's Rinzler. And the shadowed chasm of obsession shines clear on his face. It's unmistakable in the possessive glint in Clu's eyes. Sam's head spins, and he closes his eyes again, and it's all he can do to swallow back the bile suddenly creeping into his throat.

He can hear his dad's voice so clearly in his thoughts now. Bedtime stories, snippets of information dropped here or there, every piece an invaluable treasure.

Tron. The hero of the Grid. The protector of his father's miracle.

Tron, whom Kevin Flynn always spoke of with the same soft smile, the same unmasked warmth, no matter how many times he told the same stories.

But he's not Tron anymore. He's broken. Broken and reprogrammed into an emotionless warrior with Tron's face. He's Rinzler now, and he belongs to Clu, and even as Sam tries to wrap his head around the new information, Rinzler's tongue pierces him deeply and intently, drawing an uneven gasp from Sam's throat.

Oh god, this is fucked up. Sam can't get his head around it, he can't breathe, can't keep it all straight as his thoughts swim with visions of his father and Tron, _Clu_ and Tron, Rinzler with his blank, intense face—and all the while, Rinzler doesn't stop, and Sam can feel the few remaining circuits of his suit pulsing white-hot, his skin heating and flushing as arousal makes him squirm.

He tells himself not to beg. Clu won't listen. Rinzler won't listen. All it will do is make him look weak. Scared. Helpless.

But he's all those things right now, and his voice betrays him.

"Please don't," he whispers. Clu only smiles wider.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

The desperation in the boy's voice is enough to snap Clu out of his rageful memories and back into _this_ moment, and when he drags his eyes from Rinzler—from the sight of what Rinzler is currently _doing_ —and drops his gaze to Sam's flushed face, a fresh surge of want courses through him, vicious and immediate.

They're close now. They're so close Clu can taste it on the air like electricity.

Almost none of the tight, black armor is left on Sam's body—a patch covering his left shoulder, a strip of material still shaped to his side and part of his back, a circle of circuitry at one hip. His legs are still relatively covered where Clu's Light Strand hasn't further dissolved the material, and Sam's hands—pinned as they are in place at his back—still wear the partial gloves he started with.

But in those few spots where the armor remains, Clu can barely rest his eyes for the impossible brightness of the User's circuits. Sam is almost ready to be pushed over that edge.

The position Sam is in right now puts a new, though equally tempting, thought in Clu's head, and he spends a moment indulging in the idea. Sam's hair is brushing Clu's thigh, so close, a tickle of sensation through the leg of Clu's suit. His neck is warm beneath Clu's fingers, and it would be so easy to maneuver Sam forward just slightly and put his gasping, gorgeous mouth to more practical use.

The idea is so powerful—so intoxicating—that Clu very nearly begins derezzing his own suit right then. The thought of forcing Sam to open his mouth, to take the unforgiving length of Clu's cock down his throat, is heady and intense.

But Sam is right there on the brink now. He's right where Clu wants him. And Clu is too impatient to risk quelling the boy's unwilling arousal now.

Later, perhaps. If Sam survives the Games. If Kevin Flynn doesn't accept the bait. Maybe then.

"Rinzler," says Clu. His voice carries the weight of command, and he doesn't need to give any further instruction than that. Clu simply lets go of Sam's neck and rises to his feet, and Rinzler withdraws obediently, fingers still grasping Sam's hips as he watches Clu move towards the waiting couch—as he and Sam both watch Clu settle back in a deliberately casual slouch.

Then Rinzler is guiding Sam upright. His hands are gentler than Clu would've expected—gentler than he would prefer—but he doesn't want to break the silence to micromanage. He doesn't want to lose the mounting tension or the dazed expression on Sam's face. It's enough that Rinzler is pulling Sam to his feet—is pushing him forward towards Clu, though the Light Strands wrapping down each leg are clearly slowing Sam's movements.

And then they reach the couch, and Rinzler gives a sharp shove that sends Sam to his knees—sends him landing in an off-balance straddle across Clu's lap.

Rinzler kneels at Clu's feet, then. Patient and waiting. And Clu looks at Sam—looks at his wide-blown pupils, his flushed cheeks and parted lips—and he wonders how far Sam is from uttering a different sort of plea. He drags Sam forward by the hips, close against his chest, and Sam gives a ragged gasp as their circuits drag against each other—as Clu's gloved fingers grasp too tightly before abruptly releasing him to trace purposeful paths up Sam's back.

"Relax, Kiddo," Clu murmurs, thrilling at the sensation himself—thrilling even more at the way his words make Sam flinch and duck his eyes. Clu trails a finger—mocking and comforting in equal parts—across Sam's cheek and says, "You're going to enjoy this part."

Derezzing his own suit and armor is as simple as a thought, and Clu considers for a moment before opting to leave the contours of his coat and cape exactly the way they are. The remaining fabric is no impediment to what comes next. It's no barrier at all between his now naked front and the exposed body of the User sitting astride his thighs.

Clu's cock twitches eagerly, and Sam must feel it because he moves as though to pull away. Clu sees a shiver of movement beyond Sam—Rinzler, already prepared to offer a restraining hand—but Clu gives a quick shake of his head to keep him at bay.

He wants this for himself first.

He keeps one hand at Sam's hip, bracing and commanding, as his other hand slips lower. He finds Sam slick but still tight, as ready as he'll ever be, and Clu takes a moment to probe with one questing finger, then two. He's surprised when instead of trying to jerk away again, the touch makes Sam crumple forward. Sam curls against Clu's chest, breath ghosting hot and sharp across Clu's sternum, and he breathes a string of shocky, staccato gasps.

Maybe he's simply given up on fighting. Or maybe he's too far gone. Either way, Clu withdraws his fingers and takes himself in hand. He lines up, impatient, and urges Sam down onto the head of his cock.

Clu forces himself to pause there. His chest vibrates with the strain of not dragging the boy immediately flush against him, and he thinks Rinzler might be purring louder where he kneels at Clu's feet. Sam cries out at even that partial invasion, head snapping back and eyes blinking blankly at the ceiling as his arms strain, futile, against their bonds.

Clu watches with ravenous eyes, and nearly moans at the way the air around Sam pulses with a tease of power—a promise of something overwhelming and impossible—and with the way Sam's body tightens around him in instinctive resistance.

Clu considers telling the boy to loosen up. He grasps Sam's hips with both hands, unyielding and firm, and inches him further down Clu's length instead.

" _Please_ ," Sam whispers, eyes still unfocused, and glowing now, a blue pulse of light behind his pupils. Clu would bet he doesn't know if he means 'stop' or 'more' at this point, and he rewards the indecision with one last, sharp tug that slots him deeply, indelibly in Sam's body and garners a low, breathy, " _Fuck_ ," from Sam's throat.

Sam falls against him again, burying his face against Clu's throat, as though that will protect him from the sensations making the dwindling edges of his circuits stutter with light and setting the very air on edge with the building storm-front of the User's impending release.

Clu fists a hand in Sam's hair, forces his head back, his throat arched, and as the last of the black material dissolves from around Sam's neck, Clu leans in and lays a rough bite at the spot just beneath Sam's ear, teeth harsh on Sam's throat just below his jaw. He doesn't intend to draw blood—not consciously—but the gesture makes Sam's breath hitch, his hips stutter, his ass clench maddeningly around Clu, and Clu bites down harder. He sucks possessively at the skin trapped in his teeth, traces the heated flesh with his tongue, and then draws back at the sudden, unfamiliar tang that greets him.

His eyes rivet instantly to Sam's throat, and Sam grunts when Clu's fingers tighten cruelly in his hair. Clu barely notices. He's too busy staring at the tiny trickle of blood making its way from the purpling bruise down the pale column of Sam's throat.

Clu growls then, low and severe, and drags Sam more tightly against him—gets his mouth back on that spot, licks sharply—is just beginning to think about sinking his teeth even deeper when Sam startles him, hips jerking suddenly and reminding Clu that he has more immediate, more important aims right now.

He lets go of Sam's hair, braces his hands below Sam's thighs instead, and lifts him bodily, feeling his cock slide partway free before pulling Sam right back down again, slotting in even further than before and dragging a choked sound from Sam's chest.

"You like that?" Clu murmurs, repeating the movement as much to hear Sam gasp as because of the pleasure it sends rippling through his own systems. "Eh, Kiddo?" Again, and then the sound of an unwilling moan on Sam's lips, and Clu says, "Do you like being filled like this, Sam? Do you like the way it feels?"

"Fuck," Sam whispers, tight and hot and so wound up Clu can hear his voice shake even on that one word.

"Maybe you'd like more."

Sam goes suddenly still. His arousal is still charging the air, heating and brightening and electrifying the space between them, but there's fear again now. There's uncertainty flashing behind the rhythmic blue glow in Sam's eyes when the boy jerks back from Clu's chest.

"No," Sam says. But his voice lacks conviction.

Rinzler is already moving—obviously knows a go-ahead when he hears it—and Clu shifts on the couch, sliding sideways and making room. He guides Sam with unrelenting hands, keeps him trapped on the length of Clu's cock as the edge of Clu's cape falls to the floor.

Rinzler settles into place as though he never vacated his post, plastering his body along the length of Sam's back and emitting the same ceaseless, rumbling purr. His knees knock against Clu's as he settles onto the couch behind Sam, between Clu's legs, and even as Sam tries to shoulder away from the renewed invasion of his space, Rinzler nuzzles at Sam's throat—at the spot where Clu's teeth drew unrepentant bruises to the surface and made Sam bleed moments before.

Sam's not bleeding anymore, but Rinzler still kisses that spot, disarmingly tender, and Sam's whole body trembles between the two programs.

"Jesus Christ," Sam breathes, throaty and rough, and for a moment he stops trying to get away.

Clu takes advantage of the moment's respite, sliding his hands from Sam's body to Rinzler's. He reaches past the boy to touch the familiar contours of the security program's sides and hips. Armor disintegrates beneath his touch, shimmering edges that vanish away to nothing, and the rough pixels of disappearing material spread rapidly out from Clu's touch, rippling in all directions. The last of Sam's clothing falls simultaneously away, and then it's nothing but skin on skin on skin. Clu takes one final, self-indulgent moment to appreciate the familiar feel of Rinzler's bared flesh beneath his fingers before getting his hands back on Sam.

Clu holds on fiercely, intently, and doesn't resist the urge to thrust deeper into the tight heat of Sam's body. He's desperate for this, mad from the intensity, the pulse of potential across his skin, and Sam's body rocks upwards with the force of Clu's thrusts.

Sam's voice comes in inarticulate rasps and then hones to a sharp cry when Rinzler slides a finger in beside Clu's cock.

"That's it," Clu says, though it ends up coming out more of a snarl than a reassurance, and when Sam's body tries instinctively to wriggle away from the added invasion, Clu jerks him back down more harshly than necessary. It earns him a breathy sound, something tight and hurt but still undeniably turned-on. Strained tremors shake through Sam's body, and he jolts uselessly against Clu's hold when Rinzler adds a second finger, pressing both digits deep, then curling them around Clu's cock.

And that's good—that's more than good—but Clu can't spend himself yet, and so he says, "Rinzler, enough." Rinzler's fingers disappear with a smooth, devious twist, and then Clu can feel the head of Rinzler's cock bumping against the place his own stiff length disappears inside Sam.

It doesn't seem possible. But it will be.

"Please," Sam gasps tightly. "Fuck, please, I can't."

"You can," Clu whispers, holding Sam's hips still as Rinzler purrs and presses closer. As Rinzler's cock presses against the tight rim of Sam's ass and finally, grudgingly, slides in beside Clu's.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Sam spasms, chest hitching on a choked sob of sound. He stops trying to twist away from Clu's body—collapses against him instead—forehead shoved beneath Clu's jaw, shoulders shaking with strain as Rinzler presses deeper. Sam's breath comes in ragged, patchy shudders, and Clu focuses on that sound. He revels in it, feels an instant thrill course through his body. For a moment he doubts his ability to let this boy go, even for the sake of his bigger plans. The urge to keep him is keen and intense.

When Rinzler has no farther to go, he pauses and seeks Clu out with his eyes. A question flashes there, a wordless request for permission, and Clu nods.

Rinzler draws back and thrusts in again. Sam chokes on a ragged groan. Clu holds still, knows he doesn't have to move if Rinzler keeps this up, jostling Sam's body on top of Clu, violating the User with such determined purpose, pressing deep with each thrust as Rinzler sets a smooth, forceful rhythm.

The sounds Sam makes at first are tinged with almost as much pain as pleasure, but as his body adjusts to accommodating both programs at once, his voice ratchets to smoother, breathier sounds and Clu knows it's only a matter of time.

Which is fortunate—at this rate he won't last much longer himself.

He knows Sam is beyond trying to escape the things they're doing to his body now, and so he eases his hold on Sam's hips. He lets his hands quest elsewhere, along Sam's back, his thighs, the swell of his ass. Rinzler's rhythm doesn't relent, and Sam is shaking to pieces now. He's breathing hard, panting desperate gulps of air, arms twisting in his bonds, chest heaving unevenly as ragged tremors course through him. Clu feels it all, feels the spreading glow as his body absorbs energy from the air, energy Sam's body is emitting without conscious thought, and this is just a foretaste.

Rinzler's low rumble hits a higher pitch, and Sam gasps a stuttering moan, and Clu feels the moment settle in around them—taut and bright and expectant.

He slips a hand low between their bodies—between Sam's legs—and wraps his fingers around the straining length of Sam's erection.

It only takes three strokes to carry Sam over the edge, and then there's nothing but heat, and power, and the searing light of the User's orgasm whiting out the room. Clu follows quickly, even before Rinzler, carried away on a wave of pure, undiluted power. He opens himself to it, absorbs it into himself, and for a moment the world falls away to nothing.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam wakes feeling like he's been unconscious for a week.

His head pounds unhappily, his whole body aches, and when he tries to shift his arms beneath him he finds that they refuse to support his weight. He blinks his eyes open, confused by the stark colors surrounding him, unnatural yellow and reds, and for a moment he can't place his surroundings.

Then it all rushes back into his head like a furious tidal wave, and he can't breathe through the shame.

Fuck, everything hurts, but the lesser aches are nothing compared to the single, centered sensation suddenly commanding his attention. Try as he might, he can't ignore the deep-seated throb of discomfort telling him he definitely didn't dream any of what just happened.

He shifts carefully onto his side, feeling the give of soft cushions beneath him and the barely noticeable restriction of his suit and armor already back in place. He realizes he's lying on Clu's low, angular couch. He also realizes that even the smallest movement makes his ass twinge sharply, and he wonders just how badly he's hurt. Even as he wonders, he feels his face flush with heat, with memory, and then the belated pulse of returning shame.

His eyes scan the room, half expecting to find it empty, but instead his gaze alights on the two programs standing a short distance away.

Clu is already dressed, suited from throat to boots in his yellow-lit armor.

They don't even seem to have noticed him. Clu's hands rest high on Rinzler's chest, and rippling code spreads from beneath his fingers. The cascade of code darkens and pours across Rinzler's body, and his smooth skin disappears beneath black material, glinting armor, red lines of circuitry that flicker immediately to life.

The helmet doesn't materialize with the rest of the suit, and at first Sam wonders why.

Then Clu grabs the back of Rinzler's head, dragging him into a kiss. Somehow the sight manages to make Sam's stomach twist unhappily and his pulse pound with heat, all at the same time, and he tries to look away.

He can't, of course. He can't do anything but stare.

The kiss is rough and deep, unmistakably possessive. There's nothing romantic about it, though Rinzler opens obediently and allows it, closes his eyes, hell, he seems to enjoy it if the shifting pitch of his purr is anything to go by. He simply stands acquiescent and still as Clu ravages his mouth like he's got something to prove.

Then Clu stops. He draws back, though he doesn't let go as he turns to look at Sam over his shoulder. There's disdain in his eyes. And lingering heat. And an unapologetic satisfaction that leaves the corner of his mouth quirking up, his eyes half-lidded as they trail freely up and down Sam's body.

The scrutiny makes Sam's gut twist, and he sits up as casually as he can—as easily as he can fake.

"Feeling better?" Clu asks, still without releasing Rinzler—his fingers are playing through Rinzler's hair now, though even in that gesture there's nothing gentle.

Sam holds his tongue, because all he can think to say is ' _Fuck you_ ,' and with his luck, Clu will take that as an invitation.

"Good," Clu says, smile darkening. "You'll need your strength. I've already given you back your disc."

Sam reaches unthinkingly behind him, and his fingers brush the smooth-edged contours of the disc at his back.

"What about letting me go?" Sam asks. His voice is steady but thick with gravel. God, he sounds completely fucked-out. His face feels suddenly hot, and it's all he can do not to flinch under Clu's amused stare.

"I've decided against that for now." Clu's voice is deceptively light. Quiet mockery runs beneath the words.

Sam holds his tongue instead of asking what happens next. Last time he asked a question like that all he got himself was fucked. His ass twinges angrily, and he swallows—wonders why a single spot high on his throat is throbbing so furiously. Then he remembers Clu's mouth—Clu's tongue and teeth and the unrelenting press of his lips—and he's not wondering anymore.

God, he's so screwed.

The silence is too much, though, and he's about to ask his stupid questions after all when Clu drops both hands to his sides and gives Rinzler a final, decisive nod. Rinzler's helmet folds and flows into place, and Alan's face disappears behind the impenetrable black sheen of that ominous mask. Sam breathes a little easier now that the only familiar face in the room is his father's, though he's still doing everything he can to keep his brain carefully detached from that train of thought.

If he actually lets himself _think_ about this, he's going to freak right the fuck out, and that can't end anywhere good. Better to keep it together and watch for a chance to escape.

The door slides open then, and a program Sam recognizes only vaguely steps into the room carrying a vial of some bright blue liquid.

"Jarvis," Clu says, attention shifting to the new arrival. "Have you kept the crowds in thrall?"

"Oh yes, Sir. They've been quite rapt. I think they know you have something special in mind." As he speaks, Jarvis moves farther into the room, until he's standing immediately before Sam, holding the vial out as though he doesn't want to get too close.

When all eyes settle expectantly on him, Sam asks, "What is this?"

He doesn't take the handoff or look at the program trying to hand it over. He watches Clu with unmasked distrust. His skin prickles when Clu quirks an eyebrow and laughs.

"Drink it, Sam. You'll feel better after you do. Trust me, you don't want to participate on the Gaming Grid with any obvious… disadvantages."

Sam still considers the blue liquid suspiciously for a moment, but finally decides it's not worth fighting. He plucks the vial from the timid program's hand and downs it in a gulp. It _does_ make him feel marginally better—quiets the pulse of discomfort in his ass and puts some of the feeling back in his arms and wrists.

"Now," Clu says, face brightening into an expectant smile. "Rinzler, you know where I need you. Jarvis, take the User below. I think we've kept the crowd waiting long enough."

Sam lets himself be hauled to his feet—lets himself be directed towards the door. If there's going to be a moment for escape, this isn't it, and he pauses by Clu on his way past.

Clu raises his eyebrows curiously, and Sam levels a cool glare at the program wearing his father's face.

"I'm going to kill you," Sam says, far more calmly than he feels.

The expression of blank curiosity turns to a wry, humoring smile, and Clu waits a long moment before responding.

"No, Sam," he finally says. "You won't. But I hope you'll give it your very best effort."

Jarvis directs Sam out of the room, scornful and insistent, and all Sam can do is follow.

**Author's Note:**

> Click [here](http://dauntdraws.livejournal.com/44975.html) or the image below to see Daunt's full sized, uncensored illustration:  
> 
> 
>   
> [  
> ](http://dauntdraws.livejournal.com/44975.html)  
> 


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